I pressed the button to save Abby’s message, then began cycling backward through the old ones, glancing at the numbers to eliminate the calls one by one, without listening to them. There was a call from Vic’s cell phone, and another one from Ethan. Next was my own number; I’d cal ed from the airport to tell my father I’d gotten his earlier message.

I pressed the button one more time, and a fourth number appeared on the display. The time and date looked about right for the second message from the informant. So I pressed the play button.

“It’s me again. Your friendly neighborhood snitch…”

We listened in silence as Dan Painter—and it was definitely him—told us where to find the body of a werecat near the westernmost edge of the Kisatchie National Forest in Louisiana. “And there’s more information where that came from, if you’re interested. But I want something in return, so next time, you’d better answer the damn phone.”

There was a soft click as the connection was cut, but right before that click there was a single, soft bang, like a gunshot in the distance. And the distinctive air-beating sound of a propeller.

I sucked in a silent breath as my blood seemed to freeze in my veins. I couldn’t swear that boom was actual gunfire, but I could swear I’d heard it before. That very afternoon, in the message Andrew had left on my phone.

Fuck.

I told myself it meant nothing. They were two different gunshots, or explosions, or whatever. Dan Painter and Andrew couldn’t possibly have cal ed from the same town. It was just a coincidence.

Unfortunately, I didn’t believe in coincidence.

Chapter Sixteen

“Well, it’s official,” Marc said, his voice light with relief, because he had yet to notice my sudden panic attack. “Painter’s the guy. Our very own overworked, underappreciated anonymous informant. Now we just have to find him.”

“Mmm-hmm,” I mumbled, stil staring at the answering machine.

“What’s wrong?” Marc eyed me careful y from the center of the love seat.

“Nothing,” I said, a little too quickly. I didn’t want to tell him about Andrew until I was sure of what I’d heard on Painter’s message. “I was just thinking that the best way to find him would be to start with the number he cal ed from.” Attagirl, Faythe. Stick to the truth. At least, as much of it as you can.

“Read me the area code,” Michael said, the disappointment on his face saying clearly that he wished he’d thought of it first.

Hopping down from the desk, I circled my brother to watch over his shoulder as he opened a new browser window and typed “reverse phone directory” into the Google search bar. When the new screen loaded, I read him the number from the display on the answering machine.

Michael added the digits to his search, and sat back while the computer did all the work.

“Did you come up with any other missing strippers?” I asked, watching as a progress bar began to fill on-screen.

“Yeah.” Michael extended both hands above his head, stretching like a cat asleep in the sun. “One from Arkansas, and two more from Louisiana.” He paused, tilting his head down to peer over his useless glasses at the information now available on the screen. “Here you go.”

He nodded toward the flat-screen monitor. “Painter called from a pay phone in Leesville, Louisiana.”

And though it obviously meant nothing to Michael, according to the on-screen map, Leesville was less than ten miles north of Pickering, where the tabby had left Jamey’s body.

“The first cal came from somewhere in Arkansas, didn’t it?” Marc asked, finally pushing himself off the sofa to join us at the computer.

“Yeah. Um…” Michael reached across the disturbingly neat desk and pulled the huge atlas toward him. It was already open to the Arkansas page, and my father had circled two towns in red ink. One of them was Dumas, the small town just southeast of Pine Bluff, where I’d first smelled, then spotted Dan Painter when we stopped for gas. The other was—

“White Hall,” Michael said, finishing my own thought. “Isn’t that where you guys found Bradley Moore?”

“And where we buried him.” Marc ran one hand up my arm, and I struggled to return his smile. “That makes sense. Moore was murdered in White Hal , and Painter saw it happen, so of course he’d call from there.”

I twisted in Marc’s arms to face my brother. “You said you found a report of a missing stripper from Arkansas…?”

“Yeah.” Michael put down the atlas and picked up the yellow legal pad he’d been making notes on. “Amber Cleary. She disappeared on Wednesday night, after her shift at Club Moonlight.”

Wednesday night. A full twenty-four hours before Kellie Tandy had gone missing from New Orleans. “Where’s Club Moonlight?” I asked, pulling open my father’s top desk drawer. Inside, I grabbed a mini legal pad from the top of a small stack and slid the drawer closed. Marc handed me a pen from the jar on the desktop, and I began scratching on the lined paper as Michael flipped through his own notes.

“Um…Pine Bluff, Arkansas.”

“Where’s that?” Clenching my pen and notepad together in one fist, I bent across the desk for the atlas.

“There.” Marc reached around my arm to tap a point on the map, before I’d even found the legend.

I brushed his hand out of the way and focused on the dot his finger had been covering. Pine Bluff, Arkansas, was forty-five miles south and slightly east of Little Rock. And less than ten miles from White Hal , where Bradley Moore was murdered.